


A Matter of Payment

by heartshapeddog



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Hair Braiding, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapeddog/pseuds/heartshapeddog
Summary: "And Thorin rose from the little table, keeping Bilbo’s fingers crushed gently in his own, and went down to his knee before him. Bilbo was struck with the likelihood that no creature greater than a farm-dog had lowered its head before a Hobbit since the birth of Eä until this very moment. He looked down, fascinated, at the crown of Thorin’s head, bare of royal circlet, and felt at once humbled and strong.“I swear it,” Thorin said, and Bilbo thought of the vows from Elven history, of the type which followed the oathkeeper to the ends of Arda as a deep and binding magic. Then, he took Bilbo’s knuckles up to his lips. The rasp of his beard and his soft mouth were shocking in their immediacy and contrast. Bilbo could not help his racing heart."
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	A Matter of Payment

**Author's Note:**

> I considered this complete enough to post but had originally planned for more content. May update in the future!

Bilbo looked at his letterbox with a start. It was unoccupied - not by letters, mind, as there were three within it. Up above, he saw only a single arrow of geese, limned in orange by the late hour. At his feet, the path was clear of feathers. He took up his letters and frowned, flipping through the order twice. 

“Roäc?” He called. It felt a bit silly in his throat - more like a squawk than a name. No answer came. Bilbo waited a moment, a bit awkwardly. He sniffled in the sudden breeze, sneezed on a bit of pollen, and after a few moments wandered back to his round green door for some supper. 

His dessert was interrupted by a rapping on the glass. The little front window had a clever hinge - the first of its ilk in Bagshot Row - and Bilbo used this to open the pane. A raven stepped through to the sill and right up onto Bilbo’s arm, which dipped a bit at the weight. The raven might have been a third Bilbo’s size, and its sharp-tipped toes wrapped fully about its perch. In the dim light of fire and candle, feathers of black shone with red and green iridescence, and the little orb of its eye was a dark mirror. Bilbo rubbed the greying patch of short feathers under its beak, and smiled at the brow-like streaks of white at its crest. 

“What’s all this, my friend?” he asked, and brought the bird away to the kitchen, where he might set out a dish of sunflower seed and millet. Roäc’s head drooped with exhaustion, and he clacked his beak irritably. Then he spoke with his strange voice, sounding to Bilbo like a sick child in a canning jar.

“Storms over the mountains! Lost my letter to the wind!” 

His inflection was not perfect, and it took Bilbo a half-beat to decipher the syllables into something sensical. 

“Did Balin say to you what he had written of?” 

“Not today, not today, not today,” Roäc called, and ruffled himself in agitation. His weight was great enough to nearly upset the dish in Bilbo’s other hand. Both found a place at the table-top, and Bilbo watched the strange bobbling of Roäc’s beak in the dish. 

“I’ll send them something back,” Bilbo reasoned, “and you’ll stay a night to rest, won’t you? You’ve had an awful time of it, silly-bird.” 

“Silly-bird,” Roäc said into the dish, and chittered in amusement. Bilbo stroked the mottle of black and white over his back fondly, and sighed. He couldn’t help his sinking heart, as he dearly looked forward to the bi-monthly letter from the Company. It came, like his contract from yesteryear, in a great sheaf and folded many times, so that when held aloft it would cascade to the floor. If he was in luck, he might see twelve segments. If he was very blessed, he might see thirteen. Bilbo had not seen a thirteenth fold in some months, and had hoped, as he hoped always, to see one this day. 

“Not to be,” he said, wistful, and began to rifle through his cupboards for the wide porcelain tureen Roäc best preferred for his bed. He stuffed it with his soft dish-towels and a bit of straw, and set it near the opened window. His letter, carefully penned and sealed with wax, waited patiently near the bowl. It would be gone by morning, as would the raven. Bilbo bid him goodnight with a word and a dry kiss on the beak - Roäc returned both of these, though his kiss was only a little sound-effect directed to Bilbo’s cheek - and turned in for the evening. 

He took his pipe atop the smial in the morning, finding letter and raven already departed. The oak sapling there stretched up no higher than Bilbo’s knee, still slender and pale with wide, tender leaves. Of all the silly things he’d said to his roses, or his herbs, or his vegetable-garden, none of them were so ridiculous as what he mumbled to the oak. He’d started with the story of the journey, quite naturally. The acorn deserved to know its origins, and what it was meant to be, and so Bilbo spoke this into the little mound of soft soil. If he went up after suppertime to lie in the cool grass under the night, he told of how starlight was cast up from a pool beneath the leaves of the great tree which Yavanna had sung forth, for both acorn and Hobbit relied on Her care.

From thence, he continued with stories of each Dwarf of the company - Balin’s wisdom and wit, Ori’s youthful curiosity. Thorin’s strength of mind and body, his unyielding determination, and sometimes of his majesty and his rare and radiant smile. Thorin’s folds of the letter, which came so infrequently, were well-worn about the edges after months of revisiting. 

And his thoughts wandered inevitably, as if on a well-worn path, to Thorin’s sick-bed. That was where Bilbo had last seen him, pale and sweating, and speaking as he never had. The pain had loosened his tongue, and Bilbo sat, rapt, hands clasped in Thorin’s own, and listened. He had held little back - affirmations of their friendship, apologies, gratitude - everything he had hoarded like so much gold along their way. Bilbo had never heard such words from any friend, and after months of scarcity, each moment of affection like a scrap to a starving dog, he was made to glut in the uncertain hours after the battle. Thorin bled slowly through his bandages, and his thoughts seemed to bleed in turn, heedlessly soaking through any common sense or stoicism which might have stayed them. Bilbo could not remain with him there, and it pained him to ride away with both wounds and emotions still raw and tender to the air. Each letter thereafter carried a secret warmth - a sentence he could hear perfectly in Thorin’s voice, or with wit so concealed it might be read over completely by a lesser friend. Bilbo thought often on what might have been, given more time and nourishment. 

“Not to be,” he said again, and sent his smoke rings up to the warm dark and the bright spill of stars. He thought, hopelessly, on the likely possibility that they may never meet again.

  
  
  


“—or so he heard, but they didn’t wish to speak of it near the Dwarf—“

Bilbo fumbled his teacup dangerously against the saucer. 

“The what?” 

“Did I not mention to you? He’s been at the inn since yesterday’s supper. The ladies have talked of nothing else since!” 

“Not Primula, I do hope,” Bilbo replied, and he restrained his amusement at Drogo’s glum expression.

“We’ve had enough of our own absconding with Dwarves lately,” Drogo teased, playing at disapproval. His smile cracked through after a moment, and he gave it up entirely to wink Bilbo’s way. 

“They don’t think so highly of Hobbits. I can’t think of a creature they might less prefer for a traveling companion. Elves are at least useful on the road.” 

“How did you fare, then?”

“Oh, poorly. They all tolerated me by the end. All I mean is, any of our lot would likely fare worse than I, and I fared quite awfully indeed at the start!” 

They laughed together, and Bilbo observed the lightening of his cousin’s brow with some self-satisfaction. 

“Well now that you’ve learned of their ways, we must keep an eye on you. You’ve only just come back!” 

“Just! A whole year back, rather! And aside, one handsome Dwarf shan’t be enough to convince me.”

Drogo eyed him, looking a bit like a cat in a coop. 

“Handsome, eh? Do his looks weigh so heavily in your judgement?”

“Handsome, I said, not charming. Our lasses are due for a disappointment!” 

Drogo stayed through dinner, and they spoke of many things once important to Bilbo - petty flirtations by unmarried neighbors, an unreturned pie-dish. His lonely supper was not an unhappy one by any stretch. 

He took himself to the sitting room with a pinch of his best pipe-weed. This was a bribery, to keep him indoors and not wandering off for a late pint. The image was unshakeable: a hooded figure of Dwarven stature, taciturn and mysterious at the inn’s scarred table. Inevitably, the stranger became familiar through the shape of his bearded jaw, and the rings about his thick fingers. 

“Tookish, indeed,” Bilbo scolded aloud. He made to tamp his pipe when a sound startled him. 

It was a knock. At the last occasion of a visitor come past visiting hours, Bilbo had set out on his great journey. He couldn’t help his auspicious feeling as he approached the door. 

A cloaked shape loomed, very near his lintel, tall enough to just fit under the height of the arch. No darkness or raiment could disguise Thorin Oakenshield - not after such time spent seeking him out for second watch in the cold nights, or following his back through the blackness of Mirkwood or the dim passages of a mountain hall. Bilbo felt the disused muscle of his cheeks stretch with a grin, and disbelieving laughter curled up warmly through his chest. For a moment, Thorin looked at him from beneath the hood - his eyes were kindly, and for a hopeful moment, Bilbo watched the premonition of a smile at his lips. 

As quickly as it had come, it was passed, and Thorin’s expression became grim. He looked only at his boots as he crossed the threshold, and these he deposited alongside his cloak at the entryway with unfamiliar courtesy. Bilbo’s hand had reached out thoughtlessly, and now hung, unacknowledged, in the space between them. He took it back to his chest, confused and not a little hurt. 

“You’re quite late for tea,” he joked, though it sounded thin to his ear. Thorin looked at him then, and his face was veiled and stern, and so painfully like it had been at the beginning of their association. Where was the intimacy they had shared by bedside and letter? Bilbo at once felt a fool, not to mention wrong-footed. 

“I apologize. I had thought it best to arrive quickly.” 

“I’m quite pleased to have you -- see you!” Bilbo hurried to assure him. “It is no trouble at all.” 

“Are you?” Thorin asked, wary. Whatever he searched for now in Bilbo’s face, he found it. The slope of is shoulders loosened minutely, and something softened around his eyes. “You are.” This he said with a little wonderment. 

“Of course. Of course I am. My dear friend,” Bilbo said, and now he felt like the one bleeding. “I have missed you greatly.” 

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, and the breath he took was visible in his chest. Bilbo wished to go to him then, and have his arms around his ribs, which were again whole and strong. He did not, and instead they shared a silence, not fully comfortably. 

“I’ve been an awful host,” Bilbo laughed, scrubbing at the back of his head. “Please, take your pack in - you’ll have the same room as before. Are you hungry?” 

“No, I thank you. I’m afraid I must turn in.” 

Bilbo had not realized how much he had wanted - joyfully anticipated - sitting with Thorin and sharing the pipe in his comfortable chairs, and talking into the late hour. A simple fantasy which had remained implicit in his mind until this moment, when it was now denied. That was simply how things would be - and now they were not. His disappointment turned sharp. 

“Ah. I see. I’m sorry to have kept you. Do rest well.” 

Bilbo strode to his room without looking back, and closed the door. 

  
  
  
  


“Blasted thing,” he muttered, and at last wrenched the stubborn drawer open. The ladles and spatulas had all shifted about, and rattled noisily with the disturbance. Behind him, the stove bubbled merrily with a blackberry buckle and savory porridge, one of which badly needed a stirring. 

“Does it bother you often?” 

Bilbo turned to find Thorin looming behind him, strangely docile in his soft shirt and long-johns and with bare toes on the floorboards. The sight of it softened his frustrations leftover from the night before. 

“The drawer? I’ve been meaning to fix it. That and a dozen other things. Good morning, by the by.” He passed a set of plates and mugs to Thorin and was pleased when he did not argue or scoff at the implication. 

“Ah, good morning.” 

“I see you’ve at last learned your place in my home,” Bilbo said, meaning to jest at the King currently setting his table. Thorin went very still for a half-moment, and Bilbo could not see his face. 

“It would seem so,” he replied, and neither could Bilbo glean anything from his tone. Breakfast proceeded peacefully regardless, for which he was grateful. Thorin took very little for his plate, and Bilbo, rather than comment, simply dished him another helping along with a reproachful look. It was pleasing indeed, to see Thorin flush with good humor rather than remain sullen, even if he maintained his silence. 

“What shall we do with our fine morning?” Bilbo prompted. He had countless dreams to make reality - elevenses on the lazy Bywater banks, mushroom gathering in the woods, perhaps a scandalous high tea with Otho and Lobelia. Thorin’s eyes shifted to the kitchen over Bilbo’s shoulder. 

“Shall I work on that drawer?” he asked. 

“You want to… repair my smial?” 

Thorin seemed to consider this, as if it were a real question. Then he said, “Yes, I believe that will do for a start,” which only confused Bilbo further. As his guest, Bilbo had little right to deny him, and he had no excuse at all in the quality of Thorin’s work. 

It was not how he had intended to spend his morning. Bilbo felt strange leaving him to work, and so awkwardly lingered nearby - at the table, or in the doorway, or sitting on the floor - while Thorin methodically perfected every hinge, bolt, knob, fixture, and amenity in the entire home. Stories and songs, legends and anecdotes - all of these came forth from his mind as he watched Thorin work. Thorin gave little response, but seemed amiable enough to have the silence filled. He did not finish by lunch, and in fact had much more to do by his own estimations, but Bilbo would not stand for it and forced him to come outside. 

“Wood pile’s a bit low,” Thorin mumbled, and Bilbo stepped in front of him on the path. He planted his feet and summoned up a stern expression. 

“Listen. We are going to market. Your concern now is carrying my groceries and enjoying yourself. By Eru, you will have a lovely time!” 

Thorin looked down at him, blinking in shock. “Is that what would please you?” 

“Wh -- yes! Yes, that would please me!” Bilbo sputtered, once again bewildered. “We are purchasing ingredients and perhaps having luncheon out and it will be splendid!” 

“I shall endeavor,” Thorin replied seriously, but his eyes were warm. 

Once, Bilbo had given a public endorsement for the value of Thorin’s word. He was not wrong on that count, gold-sickness aside. 

Their mid-morning venture was splendid, indeed. Bilbo lead him through the throng of Hobbits with a fist in his shirt-front, laughing all the while, and Thorin came without complaint. This was partly for Thorin’s benefit, as Bilbo could easily become lost to him in a sea of short, curly-headed folk. If he turned a few of those curly heads with his Dwarven companion, all the better. Bilbo was beginning to relish the scandal. Thorin seemed to take his assignment seriously, and leaned low to rumble in Bilbo’s ear about fruits he did not recognise, or the manner of Hobbit crafting and woodcarving, or simple observations for their amusement. He cared not one whit for the opinions of gossiping Hobbits, and each shocked glance brought no more injury than a flung pebble to a mountain. Bilbo was permitted to carry nothing, and Thorin bore produce and pastries and sundries with his easy strength and grace down the long road back to Bag End. All together it was the most fun Bilbo had perhaps ever had. 

“Oh, what a shame Lobelia wasn’t about! You’ll positively terrify her! Shall we have her ‘round for tea?” Bilbo laughed. 

“We could, if you like,” Thorin replied. “I could threaten to eat her if her manners prove insufficient.” 

At this, Bilbo required a moment of composition against his fence-post, as well as liberal use of his handkerchief. Thorin waited, arms full, and smiled. 

This peace was not to last, and Bilbo once again found himself ignored in his own home in favor of minor repairs. Thorin persisted this way until dinner, and would not be plied by tea or scone or pie or, most painfully, Bilbo’s company. Bilbo shut himself in the study for some hours, pacing and smoking and unable to do anything productive but sulk and stew. When he at last emerged, he approached Thorin with good intentions, and instead said, “Why don’t you mind the wood pile, then?” 

He expected Thorin to laugh, or perhaps wave him away - Thorin instead collected his boots and went to the task immediately, with only a little surprise at the interruption itself. Bilbo was left, stunned, in the sitting room. He went to the window - Thorin had sought out the axe at the back of the smial and was now, yes, splitting logs in the side-yard. 

“Unbelievable,” Bilbo murmured, fuming even with the lovely sight of Thorin’s flexing back beneath his tunic, which was quickly becoming damp down the middle. Watching him gave Bilbo a dark satisfaction - that Thorin might be sweating and sore by his word. 

When at last the table had been set, and Thorin entered the house red-cheeked and aching, Bilbo caught him en route to the washroom. So close, with Bilbo’s hand at his arm, the heady smell of his clean sweat was pleasantly overwhelming. He’d only meant to say that dinner was ready, and instead -- 

“You’ll come to eat before washing up,” Bilbo said, shocked at his own boldness. Thorin was positively uncivil this way, with his tunic sweated through in dark patches under the arms and at the center of his chest, and his hair damp and curling at his temples. Bilbo at once wanted to taste the salt of him - the thought surprised him enough that he retreated to the kitchen with no further word. Thorin was left to stand in the hall, still panting and now slightly befuddled. 

“Fool of a Baggins,” Bilbo mumbled, and busied himself with the roast. Thorin was a proud Dwarf, and a King! Surely he could not deign to visit Bilbo’s table in such a state - his honor would not allow it. There were carrots to plate, and beets to dress, and fresh rolls to be wrapped in table linen, and all of this required enough time that Thorin might easily have had a quick wash despite Bilbo’s foolish request to the contrary.

Yet when Bilbo called for him from the laden table, Thorin came as he had been - sweat-soaked and now likely chilled and clammy with it, though slightly less flush. It was as if he’d simply waited in the hall where Bilbo had left him, dumbfounded. Bilbo could hardly handle the carving fork as the reality of it washed over him - this simple evidence of Thorin’s compliance. His scent was strong enough even from across the table, now slightly stale but no less pleasing to Bilbo. Thorin said nothing but a quick thanks for the meal, and his downturned gaze now looked more bashful than unfriendly. 

“How fares my wood pile?” Bilbo asked, feeling a little thrill of petty cruelty. He’d seen more of Thorin’s back than his face since he arrived! Let him sit and suffer, then! 

“Well-stocked,” Thorin replied. “Though I should work on it again tomorrow, if you’re to be truly prepared for the season.” 

“You’ll do that come morning,” Bilbo said, again astonished at his loose tongue. He would sit outside and smoke and watch, he decided, and perhaps prepare an iced tea for the occasion. He considered mentioning this to Thorin in jest, but the serious expression on his face gave him pause. 

“And what shall I do after luncheon?” Thorin asked, and something about his tone, low and serious, sent Bilbo’s imagination racing. 

“You’ll certainly take tea before dinner,” he mock-scolded,“even if I must feed it to you myself!” 

Thorin did not laugh, and quite suddenly, it was not funny to Bilbo either. Vividly, he could see himself placing little cubes of cucumber sandwich onto Thorin’s tongue, and watching the flex of his jaw as he chewed. How gratefully Thorin might look at him then, if he were capable of meeting his eye. 

“I -- excuse me,” Thorin said, and rose from the table before Bilbo could say a word. Whatever strange emotion had buoyed him into such confidence departed now, and he let his head drop into his hands. Its undertow left him chilled and trembling. 

“ _ Fool _ of a Baggins!” he hissed. For a dizzying moment, he spiralled into black thoughts - that he’d truly offended Thorin with his strange behavior, that he’d ruined what little remained of their tenuous friendship with his indecent impulses -- 

And then Thorin walked back into the room, and took his seat. He’d been absent for a few moments only, and his face now looked clean of sweat. Nothing else had changed - the same tunic was now slightly drier, and his hair was still wild. Bilbo lifted his head in time to see him breathe with intention, and take up his fork. 

  
  
  
  
  


Bilbo awoke in the night, suddenly and fully. For a long moment, he heard nothing - save for noisy frogs beyond his opened window, as was usual for the season. Then, muffled, a low groan, and after a moment, another. He frowned and sat up in bed. It was Thorin’s deep voice. The sounds did not stop, but only worsened in frequency until Bilbo reasoned that they were made unconsciously. He fumbled for his matchbox and chamberstick, and after a moment of hesitation, entered the hall. 

The best guest room was adjacent to his, and so he had only a few steps in which to lose courage. Bilbo managed to keep it, and knocked softly. If Thorin woke, he could turn him away if he wished. If he did not… Bilbo had not thought so far ahead. 

Thorin did open the door after a moment of shuffling. He did not look well - perspiring and pale, and his face was tight as if in pain. Bilbo was suddenly sorry to have come. 

“I’ve awoken you,” Thorin replied, wincing. “My apologies.” 

Bilbo watched the unsteadiness of his hand on the door frame. “I was only concerned. Foul dreams?” 

“Aye,” Thorin said, and offered nothing else. Bilbo knew there must be a thousand things for Thorin to dream ill of -  _ Azanulbizar _ , Smaug - countless nightmares not even spoken of over his long life. Days and nights of blood and grief and horror unmentioned. How many evenings had Bilbo awoken for second watch only to see the glowing bowl of Thorin’s pipe? Thorin remained half behind his door, ready to retire to his bed without one meagre kindness. It wouldn’t do. 

He could ask him - offer him a warm drink, offer to listen. By now, Bilbo suspected what he might say. 

“Come to the kitchen,” said Bilbo, and went there himself without looking back. Thorin would come, as faithfully as he had hopped into a barrel or waited in a troll’s sack by the spit.

Bilbo fixed a mug of warm milk and honey, with nutmeg grated over the frothy surface. By the time he’d finished with it and one for himself, Thorin had come to seat himself in the little breakfast nook. It was too small for him by a margin, endearingly. Thorin filled up his empty home in a way Bilbo had not expected to cherish so. His throat grew a little tight to think of it as he brought the mugs. 

“Drink up,” he urged, handing Thorin his. The ceramic was warm and smooth under his palm. Bilbo gave him a little silence in the warm corner of the kitchen, and it was more comfortable this time. By degrees, the color returned to Thorin’s cheeks and his hand grew steady on the table.

“You needn’t tell me anything,” he said. “Nor will I ask of it.” 

At this, a lingering tension he hadn’t noticed in Thorin’s body eased and he sank a little deeper into his seat. 

“I’ll ask about something you may like even less,” Bilbo continued, a little wry. They shared a beat of eye contact, Bilbo searching and Thorin cautious. “You haven’t been yourself, since you’ve come here.” 

“No,” Thorin agreed, with a great sigh. “I have found it difficult to act as I ought.” 

“Have I done something to displease you?” 

“Nothing to cause my displeasure, and nothing not within your rights.” 

His phrasing struck Bilbo oddly - what rights could he mean? 

“Can you… would you explain?” 

Thorin turned his head aside, giving Bilbo the line of his nose and jaw. His fingers were a little tight around the mug. 

“I have - that is -” 

“You have my assurance, I’ll not be displeased with you. My friend,” Bilbo said, and reached out to put his hand over Thorin’s wrist. Thorin covered it with his own, quietly struggling still. 

“I have not been in mastery of my feelings. It is particularly shameful given the debt I am repaying to you.” 

Bilbo at once had a wealth of choice - where should he even begin with all that Thorin had said? He waited, stunned, and tried to decide which bit of information was most alarming. 

“Silly question,” he said at length, “but what manner of debt are you repaying? I thought your visit was strictly social.” As he said this, he realized he was disappointed with the idea that it may not have been. Something beyond the appeal of his own friendship had brought Thorin across the mountains to him, and it stung him more than he expected.

Thorin paled, his face drawn with shock. 

“You… did not receive the letter?” 

“Roäc had lost one over the mountains some months ago,” Bilbo said weakly, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Oh dear.” 

“I see now how I have concerned you,” Thorin replied, hoarse. He kept hold of Bilbo’s hand against his arm, more firmly than might have been warranted. Tersely, he began to explain the nature of Erebor’s debt to Bilbo - the unexpected snag of tainted gold, and the many debts to be repaid to Dale and the Elves, and the great cost of rebuilding and living. 

“Your fortune had to be used,” Thorin explained, “lest we starve through our first winter. It was my decision. I bear the responsibility of debtorship on my own back.” 

“By carrying my groceries and chopping my wood,” Bilbo said, a bit hollowly. He wanted to laugh, in a strange, mad way. 

“Anything you require,” Thorin confirmed. He said it with the same conviction as his oath to retake the mountain - Bilbo supposed this was no less important, given what he had explained. 

“You realize I had no need of it? I was quite well off for a Hobbit before our quest. I remained so afterward.” 

“It is not a question of… need. You have saved us, many times over, even now from afar. You are owed.” 

“Do you believe that I would rather have you here as my debtor than my guest?” Bilbo asked, a bit tartly. “My friend?” 

“I  _ am _ here as your friend,” Thorin said, reproachful. Bilbo was squeezing his arm now, both under the pressure of Thorin’s hand and by his own strength. He wanted to dig his truth into Thorin’s skin, to force him to see reason. 

“I did not consent to have you as my kept Dwarf,” he argued, “nor do I have need of one.” 

“How else would you have me assuage my debt?” Thorin countered, now snarling quietly. 

“Nevermind it! Erase it! You have put to excellent use a quantity of wealth I would not have used myself. I said I would help your retake your kingdom. Does this not fall under  _ my _ oath?” 

“Our tradition will not allow it,” Thorin said, at last with his kingly bearing and conviction. Like his mountain, Thorin was immovable by sheer force. In a strange moment of ambivalence, Bilbo realized the strength of his own affection for him, even as he gritted his teeth in frustration. The feeling was nostalgic. 

“Fine,” he said. “You will do what satisfies you. You always do, you stubborn thing.” 

“I do not wish to… to be at odds with you,” Thorin admitted gruffly, even as Bilbo’s expression softened. He thought abruptly of what had been said at Ravenhill, where Thorin’s blood froze under his knees.  _ I would have us part as friends. _

“Well, you shan’t be if my wishes involve setting you to my wood-pile,” he teased, gentle now, “but perhaps we could see to more leisurely acts? A compromise.” 

“A compromise,” Thorin repeated, skeptical. A Dwarven Compromise, Bilbo recalled, was not a similar concept in the least. 

“You’ll do as I say, as you seem to require,” Bilbo said, even through the embarrassment of voicing such a thing. “But what I want is your enjoyment and companionship. That will be your… act of service.” 

“Then you must tell me day by day,” Thorin said, practical as ever, “as I cannot guess at your wishes.” The space between their hands was growing warm and a bit humid now, and Bilbo wanted ever less to let go. 

“Then you must tell me if I misstep with my requests,” Bilbo countered, “and what I might avoid requesting.”

“I shouldn’t wish to be lazing about all my days,” Thorin confessed, though Bilbo rather liked the idea of Thorin at leisure in his home. “You must put me to some work, ere I become soft.” 

“You’ll set the table,” Bilbo decided, “that’s seven times a day, mind. And you can finish your tinkering and wood-chopping, if you wish it. And you’ll carry my groceries from here on!” 

He found himself grinning as he spoke, and was pleased to see Thorin’s smile at last. 

“Aye, all of that I will do. And anything else you ask, as I am able and willing.” 

“Willing, most importantly,” Bilbo confirmed. 

And Thorin rose from the little table, keeping Bilbo’s fingers crushed gently in his own, and went down to his knee before him. Bilbo was struck with the likelihood that no creature greater than a farm-dog had lowered its head before a Hobbit since the birth of Eä until this very moment. He looked down, fascinated, at the crown of Thorin’s head, bare of royal circlet, and felt at once humbled and strong.

“I swear it,” Thorin said, and Bilbo thought of the vows from Elven history, of the type which followed the oathkeeper to the ends of Arda as a deep and binding magic. Then, he took Bilbo’s knuckles up to his lips. The rasp of his beard and his soft mouth were shocking in their immediacy and contrast. Bilbo could not help his racing heart. 

“As do I,” he managed, not forgetting that this arrangement was for the both of them to keep. A less selfish Hobbit might have protested more. Bilbo looked at the King at his feet and felt… responsible. “Now, up with you. My first request is that you finish your milk and warm up properly.” 

Now Bilbo pulled at Thorin’s hand until he rose and followed him to the guest room, where he bid him to sit at the bed with his mug and the nearest throw blanket over his shoulders. He rubbed over the soft fabric, intending to soothe but unavoidably feeling the shape of Thorin’s strength beneath it.

“This is the reverse...” Thorin tried to complain, but he had begun to blink slowly and his cup tilted in his hand. Bilbo rescued it without comment, continuing to move his hands over Thorin’s arms and around to his back. 

“Hush now,” he said. “My mother did this for me, as a child. She also combed my hair with her fingers, but I know your folk have opinions about that sort of thing.” 

“I would not complain,” Thorin said, muzzily, and Bilbo felt a guilty bolt of heat through his spine. Relieved of his burdens, he was quickly falling back to sleep - Bilbo helped him to lie down properly, and arranged the covers around him. It was the last word he was capable of giving that evening, and Bilbo watched his breath settle into a slow, shallow rhythm. His mother had kissed him on the forehead at such a time, and he passed this tradition on as well, his lips dry against Thorin’s skin. 

“If you complain about  _ that _ ,” he murmured, “I’ll gladly point out that you kissed me first.”

Thorin did not respond, and Bilbo, with a last look from the doorway, returned to his room. 

  
  
  


Bilbo woke at his usual hour but did not rise from bed for some time. He was too greatly enjoying the noises from his kitchen - the clink of plates and silverware, the screaming kettle, and the low cursing all the while. It would seem he had a weakness for Thorin struggling at his behest - not out of cruelty, or amusement, but because as he lay there in his comfortable bed, Thorin’s efforts pleased him. It would have been all the sweeter with no concerns of outside obligation - but then, such a thing would be a little indecent by nature, and entirely perverse to their friendship. That is what Bilbo told himself as he at last rose and donned his dressing gown. 

He walked in to the smell of warming scones and fresh tea, and his favorite little breakfast plates set out at the nook. Thorin was removing a tray from the oven, and hurried to deposit the pastries to a serving plate. 

“Well done,” Bilbo said, well aware that he’d not given Thorin any instruction as to the locations of his plate-ware or crockery. He took his seat and enjoyed the sight of Thorin fixing his cup of tea, though he needed to inquire about how much sugar and milk should be taken. 

“Does it please you?” Thorin asked, setting the cup at Bilbo’s elbow. His ambiguous tone snagged Bilbo’s attention like a loose thread. He looked at Thorin appraisingly, at his patient stance and nervous brow. 

“I am quite pleased,” he offered, knowing immediately that he had been very close to a mark and missed it, but not knowing how or why. Thorin nodded, regardless, and took his place across the little table. First breakfast was a pleasant affair overall, with the early light through the round window, and the oft underestimated pleasure of good food and drink and company.They did not speak of the previous night, but only of trivialities - the state of Bilbo’s roses, and what they might have for luncheon. 

“See to your tasks until second breakfast,” Bilbo said, so easily that he unnerved himself. Thorin said only “Aye,” and went off to fetch his tools. Having no such purpose, Bilbo organized the mess of his writing desk for a time, enjoying the air through his hinged window. He was shocked when something else came through it - a shriek. 

“Hamfast? Hamfast!” he called, seeing a familiar arm through the edge of the pane. When Bilbo burst through the front door, he laughed - Hamfast stood very still on his front path, a bit hunched under the weight of Roäc atop his head. 

“Oh, Bilbo, thank the Green Lady! Please, can’t you help?” he moaned, cringing when the raven shuffled his wings. 

“Come here,” he laughed. 

“I can’t move!” Hamfast complained, but it was Roäc who came away and found a new perch on Bilbo’s shoulder. Having been both an unwilling and a willing perch many times in the past, Bilbo was not at all upset by the sudden weight or the sharp features very near his delicate ears, even when Roäc clacked his beak in amusement. 

“Have you got something for me?” he asked, addressing the bird at his shoulder. “Come in, then. Hamfast, you as well - will you stay for second breakfast?” 

Hamfast was still frozen in his hunch, mouth agape. The question seemed to rouse him, being familiar enough that he knew the response to give. 

“Certainly, Mr. Bilbo. Is the, er, raven coming to breakfast as well?”

“Sausages, sausages, bacon, ham,” Roäc screeched, “wee little eggsies squeal in the pan!” Then he let out a great bout of cackling laughter. Bilbo laughed with him as Hamfast looked on with poorly concealed terror. 

“That means ‘yes’, I should think. Come in!” 

Hamfast gave Bilbo and his passenger a wide berth in the entryway, scooting quickly around them to find a place at the dining table. Roäc eyed him beadily, seeming amused by his discomfort. 

“Be nice, silly-bird,” Bilbo scolded, giving his beak a little bop. It was that moment when Thorin emerged, clearly en route from one task to another. He paused to take in the scene: a strange Hobbit sitting, petrified, at the table, and Bilbo as perch to a massive raven. 

“That is Roäc, son of Cärc,” he said, not a little astonished. 

“It is,” Bilbo agreed, accepting Roäc’s fumbling beak in his hair. “He’s staying for second breakfast. Make sure you set out a bowl for him.” 

Thorin looked as if he had further questions, but did not voice them. Hamfast was now looking quite faint at the table, shocked first by a speaking bird, and now by a Dwarf he had not expected. 

“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, depositing Roäc at the tabletop, “I’ve not introduced you. That is Thorin. He is,” and here he changed course, driven by his own amusement, “a servant, sent to me by the King of Erebor.”

This news only worsened Hamfast’s condition, prompting Bilbo to fetch a cup of tea for his nerves. As he turned, he shot a wink to Thorin’s direction. Hamfast would certainly have fared worse for hearing the truth - that he was to breakfast with a King, nay, would be  _ served  _ breakfast by a King. Thorin had begun with the table already, quietly putting out the dishes and the carafe while Bilbo raided the pantry. Roäc’s menu had sounded quite appealing, after all. 

Doubts came to him as he cooked - had Thorin been offended by his deception? Even if he were, he had honor enough not to mention his offense before Hamfast. Bilbo fretted as he seared sausages and cracked eggs. He heard Hamfast from the dining room over the sizzling and stirring. 

“Is the King a great friend of Mr. Bilbo?” 

“Aye, Bilbo is his greatest friend, and a great ally to Erebor. He was vital to the King’s quest. I am honored to serve him.” 

Bilbo’s head whipped ‘round at that, though all he could glimpse was Hamfast’s shoulder through the doorway. 

“Well, you make sure he treats you right, Mr. Thorin. He’s been kind to his old gardener for years, is all I can say.” 

“He is a fine Master,” Thorin agreed, and Bilbo could hear no jest in his voice. 

“Thorin, come assist with these eggs,” he called, unable to bear a moment more of that conversation. When Thorin appeared by his side, Bilbo yanked him down by his shirt-front and hissed, “What on Eä are you doing?” 

“Are you displeased? You are the one who suggested it,” Thorin asked, low and warm. Now Bilbo was being laughed at for certain. “I am simply playing along.” 

“I’m not… displeased,” Bilbo admitted, and he realized with a start how close he had bid Thorin to lean. He smoothed down his shirt apologetically, but Thorin stayed as he was, the tips of his braids nearly tickling at Bilbo’s shoulders. “Do as you like. I only worried I had offended you.” 

“You have not,” Thorin assured him, and at last moved away in order to plate the eggs. Bilbo followed him with the sausages, pleased to see that a loaf of bread had already been cut and warmed and set out with butter.

He took his customary place at the table and bid Hamfast to eat. Thorin lingered, standing. 

“You may eat with us, if you wish,” Bilbo said, shooting him a curious glance. 

“Generous of you, Master,” he responded, with only a small smirk, and took a seat at last. Bilbo kicked him a little under the table. Roäc, who had settled into his favorite bowl like an odd centerpiece, cackled. He did so around a bit of sausage, which caused an unsettling sort of garble in the noise. 

“So, Mr. Thorin, how does Mr. Baggins compare to your masters at home?” 

“He’s not beaten me yet, so very well,” Thorin said easily. Bilbo barely managed his bite of eggs without inhaling them. 

“I’ve perhaps been too kind to you, given what you’re used to,” Bilbo retorted, again jabbing him playfully under the table. “See if I don’t take a hand to you this very evening!” 

Thorin’s eyes went from soft to intense in a moment, but he did not look upset. If anything, his smile grew teeth. 

“I will endeavor to behave myself,” he said, and his tone was almost improper to Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo hastened to address Hamfast, who was watching with renewed distress.

“Don’t look so concerned, Gamgee! We jest - he’s a friend of mine, as well.” 

“Friend of servant and of King, then? I’ve never met a King before!” 

Thorin’s hand gripped Bilbo’s knee under the table, as if to represent the force of his secret laughter. 

“Yes, well, it was rather exciting. His first impression was quite grand but his second left something to be desired. Subsequent impressions did improve, however.” 

“What is he like?” Hamfast asked, a bit dazzled by the concept. 

“A bit of a git, really. In a very Kingly way,” Bilbo said, mainly to irritate said King. “He is a Dwarf, so naturally stubborn. But also very strong, in mind and body, and a fine warrior. He saved my life on that journey, many times.” 

“And you, his,” Thorin said, and his hand squeezed more gently where it rested. Bilbo conceded the point with a nod. 

“Does he look like Mr. Thorin, here? Excuse me, but I’ve not seen any other Dwarves. I hardly believed the rumor that you’d taken one to market!” 

“He’s much more handsome than Mr. Thorin,” Bilbo laughed. “Bit like a fairy-story hero, if you can imagine. The dashing type.” Here he ignored Thorin’s snort. 

“I see, Mr. Bilbo! And what about the, uh, the bird?” 

This was a proper distraction - Bilbo began the tale of their first meeting at the mountainside, but he was not unaware of Thorin’s eyes on him. His gaze prickled like a touch, even as he affected interest in his food. Roäc, for his part, had puffed up proudly in his bowl-nest, and took pleasure in reciting his own dialogue in the tale. Bilbo almost laughed aloud halfway through when he realized how motley his breakfast company truly was. 

“Excellent meal, sir,” Hamfast said, when the plates were empty but for grease and the tea depleted. “I thank you. And you, Mr. Thorin - a pleasure.” 

Bless Hamfast, as he always left before an invitation could wear thin. He did so now, with a very pleasant goodbye to Bilbo, and Thorin, and a hesitant but still admirably polite word to Roäc. 

“You,” Bilbo laughed, his back against the front door. Thorin leaned in the dining room doorway with an insufferable expression. “Absolute terror, you are.” 

“You could always take a hand to me,” Thorin teased, and his eyes were dark. 

“Don’t test your luck,” Bilbo shot back, but his grin was irrepressible. “Now, will you see to Roäc’s letter? He’d best be on his way soon. Then you can go back to your wood-pile, Mr. Thorin!” 

Thorin did as he was bid, but not without a snort of amusement. 

Bilbo read over the missive to the hypnotic sound of log-splitting. He hadn’t summoned up the courage to sit out and sip tea to the sight of Thorin working. Next time, perhaps. This did not prevent him from turning his head to the window for a glance or two. His vantage this time was from the side, and he had a better view of Thorin’s face as he worked, the strain and relief trading over his features with every blow. Bilbo sunk into his chair a little, well aware he was excessively enjoying the situation. 

The letter consisted mainly of an apology for the one which had gone missing, and a reproduction of its contents. Of course, he had now been informed of Thorin’s purpose by less ideal means, and he found himself skimming halfway through the page. Something plucked at his attention part-way along.

“Should you choose to make your portion into a donation, you are entitled to deductions from future taxation in the Kingdom should you ever reside…” he mumbled, brow furrowing. Had that been an option all along? He had said to Thorin that his debt should be forgotten entirely, rather. Thorin, who might have suggested Balin’s option, and instead was splitting Bilbo’s logs and setting out his dishes. 

Bilbo turned fully to the window, pipe in hand, and considered. 

Thorin set aside his axe ere long, mopped the sweat from his face with his shirt-tail, and made for the door. He would pass by Bilbo’s seat on his way to the washroom, and when he did, Bilbo looked at him with narrowed eyes, sharp as a hook. 

“Don’t,” he said, satisfied when Thorin stopped before him. 

“Don’t?” 

“Don’t wash. Set the dishes out. You’ll wash after luncheon. Or perhaps you won’t. It’s my decision, isn’t it?” Bilbo turned back to his letter as he spoke, but read nothing. A long moment of silence followed, filled only by Thorin’s labored panting. 

“It is,” he agreed, and his breathlessness had a fair enough excuse. His footsteps retreated to the kitchen. Bilbo’s hands were suddenly cold and trembling. 

“Collect yourself, Baggins,” he muttered. “Oh, Green Lady!” 

He kept his seat obstinately, partly due to his bout of nerves and partly because he knew Thorin would wait for him. The meat pies, which he’d set to warm after second breakfast, would keep. Bilbo breathed, slow and deep. 

Thorin was indeed waiting, and had set out the meat pies as well. He was just as mussed as at yesterday’s luncheon, sweating and still out of breath. Bilbo wondered perversely if he could ask to put his face under Thorin’s arm. He answered his own question with the realization that  _ yes, he could _ , and Thorin would likely not refuse him. He sat down a little more heavily than intended. 

“Well done,” he said, noting the folded napkins and his preferred luncheon-forks at the setting. 

“Does it please you?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo was compelled to look across at him, hot-eyed and wild-haired and smelling more deliciously than the pies. 

“You’ve pleased me,” Bilbo answered, probing, and knew he had it right by the happy fluttering of Thorin’s eyelids. Oh, Eru, this would be the death of him. Another experiment, now: “Do you think you’ve earned something for your efforts?” 

“No,” Thorin responded, wry, “My reward is your pleasure. Aside, were you not intending to take me in hand today for my mischief?” 

Bilbo thought at once that each scenario was not mutually exclusive, but he did not mention this. He did spare a wonder for Thorin’s mention of it, yet again, even in jest. He sliced the pie instead, and gestured for Thorin to take his piece. 

“I’ll reward you as I choose, won’t I?” he asked, challenging. “That was your decision.” 

When no reply came, Bilbo let the silence draw out for a length. 

“I have something to show you, then. At tea. You’ll meet me in the main hall. Don’t set the table.” 

Thorin looked up at this, his face unreadable. 

“Aye.” 

“Your time is your own until then.” 

Bilbo finished his slice a little too quickly, again taken by his nerves. He took his dish in, bid Thorin a good afternoon, and went to lay down. 

“What am I doing,” he asked his hands. “No, I know what I’m doing. Something foolish.  _ Again. _ ” 

A knock at his bedroom door startled him. He opened it to Thorin, looking sheepish. 

“Did you decide whether I am to bathe?” 

Bilbo looked up the length of him, drawn in by his clean musk, and felt himself go half-hard in his trousers. He could ask Thorin to take care of that, too, right here in the doorway -- and oh, that was  _ not  _ helpful! 

“You may,” he said, a little weakly. “Good of you to ask.” 

“Was it?” Thorin asked, looming in against the doorframe. His voice dropped, soft and deep, in the narrow space between them. 

“Yes,” Bilbo rasped, “yes.” He could think of many things for which Thorin could ask his permission, all of which would please him very much. He summoned up a little levity and stepped back. “Off with you, scoundrel.” 

Thorin moved his still damp hair over one shoulder and turned to the hall, but his gaze lingered. Bilbo shut the door for his own sake and returned to his nap. It was not a restful experience. Thorin’s lovely scent lingered in his nose, and naturally he remembered the sight of his furred belly as he’d used his shirt-tail for a kerchief. The feel of his muscles beneath that throw blanket, and the rasp of his beard over Bilbo’s knuckles. The faintly damp touch of his lips. 

With no little guilt, Bilbo thrust a hand beneath his waistband and took himself in it. This was not the first occasion for such a thing, nor would it be the last. He threw his other arm over his eyes, as though he could hide his actions by simply not looking. His body went hot immediately, a fast rush of his accumulated desires -- it was over very quickly. Bilbo lay there - prickled with sweat, and requiring fresh smallclothes - for some minutes as he considered how well and truly buggered he was. Luckily he maintained a little wash stand in the master bedroom and would not need to sneak around Thorin in the main bath. 

“Sorry,” he said to no-one in particular as he cleaned up. Perhaps a bit to himself, a bit to Thorin, and a bit to whichever divine force watched over him presently, likely with disappointment. 

Tea-time came around slowly, after Bilbo had washed and drowsed for a time, and worked in the kitchen until the hour struck. He suspected Thorin had a similar itinerary, based on his clean, sleep-warm scent as he came to the dining table. 

Bilbo had a large wicker basket set out, and he snatched it up before Thorin could take it.

“Come with me,” he said, and led him to the round, green door. 

A little footpath meandered over a low wing of the smial where the pantry dipped into the root cellar, and rounded upward to the very top. Bilbo trudged his way up, comfortable on the familiar stonework. Thorin had come barefoot, unwilling to waste time with his heavy boots for only a bit of smooth stone and soft earth. At the top of the little hill, the sight of his bare toes in the grass warmed Bilbo more deeply than the late afternoon sun. 

It was the work of moments to spread the little blanket and set out the sliced seedcake, the small sweet peppers, the hot carafe of rich tea - Thorin looked on, and might have been fidgeting were he anyone else. 

“Stay as you are, I’ll just be a moment,” Bilbo assured him, fussing the edges of the blanket flat against the ground. Satisfied, he plopped himself down on one half and unpacked the little tea-plates and fat, sturdy mugs. 

“Do you -- could I help?” Thorin asked. 

“Help by sitting down,” Bilbo said, and patted the blanket beside him. Thorin did, and he was quickly laden with a mug of hot tea and a slice of cake and a plate of finger snacks. Occupied as they were by this bounty and a lovely view of the rolling green hills, they did not speak for some time. Bilbo had ample time to plan his thoughts, to choose his words, and yet, as so often happened near Thorin, his tact vacated him entirely. 

“I’ve written to Balin,” he said. 

“Have you?” 

“I’ve donated my share.” 

“Have you really,” Thorin said, and here his tone caught Bilbo’s attention. Very little showed on his face, even in the clear and generous sunlight. It was as lovely as ever, to Bilbo, and he looked without shying at the strong line of his nose and the color of his eyes in the brightness, the gloss of his hair and his clean skin which were at last revealing his improved nutrition. 

“Yes,” he said, and did not continue. Thorin looked as if he had expected something more, and was not inclined to be pleased about it. Bilbo watched him think quietly, confusion behind his eyes. 

“You’ll have no further need of my services,” Thorin concluded. His voice remained steady, but Bilbo saw the dejected rounding of his shoulders and the sad slant of his eyes. ‘Of me,’ he had not said, but it seemed to ring in the quiet between them. 

“That’s not entirely true,” said Bilbo. The rest of his words caught in his throat for a moment, stayed by his nerves. Thorin looked at him now with curiosity and no hesitation and utter trust, as he had done in the Elvenking’s halls and on the crags of outer Erebor and countless times since, and it bolstered Bilbo’s courage as it always had. “I have great need of you.” 

“Oh?” Thorin said, and, like a river rush in the current, swayed thoughtlessly nearer. Bilbo held his ground and let him come, aware that he must be smiling like a fool. 

“Yes. But I should… we should talk.” 

“Have not we discussed our terms?” 

“Terms of the debt, yes. I am no longer your debtor.” 

“What are you, then?” 

Bilbo could not look away, and had no desire to. Thorin had half-closed his eyes, transfixed, vulnerable like he’d been only once before, in much unhappier circumstance. 

“I cannot say what I am to you,” Bilbo admitted, “but there are many things I would hope for you to be for me. Friend, of course. More.” 

“More?” 

“Lover, perhaps. If you are amenable,” and Thorin’s cheeks flushed prettily. “Pet?” Bilbo tested, spurred by Thorin’s reaction. He watched the little tug of Thorin’s teeth over his lip. “You like that one?” 

“Yes,” Thorin murmured. “All of those things. I like them.” 

“Shall we try a few more?” Bilbo asked, emboldened. “Come here, you look uncomfortable.”

He patted his thigh in invitation and savored the look of realization on Thorin’s face. He might have climbed atop Bilbo’s lap, or laid himself bodily across it - Bilbo had not specified, and was curious to let him choose. Thorin arranged himself on his back, rather, and laid his head across the pillow of Bilbo’s leg. 

“You said you would not mind if I,” Bilbo swallowed, overcome for a moment by the trusting pressure of Thorin’s head and his upward gaze, “touched your hair?” 

“I would not mind,” Thorin admitted. Each eyelash made a thin shadow against his skin, and Bilbo could count them at this distance. Another time, perhaps. Interim, he dug his fingers into the black and silver at Thorin’s temple, and watched the easing of his breath in response. 

“Pet,” he murmured, “but you enjoyed playing at my servant. Slave? No, bit extreme, that. I shan’t mistreat you or disregard your wants.” 

“I,” Thorin started, and his mouth closed abruptly. 

“Yes?” Bilbo prompted, now running his nails in blunt lines through the roots of his hair. “I meant it, I couldn’t be displeased with you. Particularly not now.” 

“If we discussed it,” Thorin said, “I would not mind being… disregarded. On occasion.” 

Bilbo thought on this. “When I asked you to come to lunch, smelling of your labors.” 

Thorin went gratifyingly red, through his cheeks and even at the collar of his throat. 

“I understand, I think. You need to be pushed sometimes.” 

Thorin seemed as if he might say something further, but simply nodded. Bilbo watched the progress of his hand through Thorin’s hair, felt the heavy silk of it. He’d meant to ask another question, and instead -- 

“Open your mouth,” he said, and Thorin did so, his tongue wet and pink and a little obscene in the lazy afternoon. Bilbo reached for his plate and fetched up a pinch of seed-cake. “There we are,” he said, and placed it carefully at Thorin’s parted lips, where he might draw it into his mouth by his own pace. 

“You know I would protest this in usual circumstances,” Thorin said warily, though the effect was softened by the sweet sponge. He said it as if Bilbo hadn’t known, or needed to know. 

“But I desire it,” Bilbo smirked, “and you know you may protest if you wish. Pretend all you like that you don’t enjoy it, being pampered so. It’s for my sake, not yours. Now hush and and have another.” 

Thorin took this crumb from his fingertips less kindly, lips and tongue and a bit of teeth all at once, with a bit of defiance. Bilbo clucked at him, amused, and moved his hands back to Thorin’s head in order to rub and scratch pleasantly at the roots of his hair. 

Bilbo had intended to speak of his oak sapling, born of the acorn he’d held in his palm at the mountain. He held Thorin in his palm now, and found himself content to bring it up another time. Thorin seemed close to sleep, soothed by the sun and Bilbo’s touch and a full belly. That feeling came upon him again, as he watched the smoothing of Thorin’s features - something more dangerous than lust. Remarkable how they had skipped over the discussion of sex entirely, when that prospect was so pleasing on its own. 

“You’ll meet me in my study tonight,” Bilbo decided, now working with both hands at the base of Thorin’s skull. “After supper. We’ve more to discuss. It’s not a discussion to be held out of doors.” 

Thorin’s eye cracked open at this, slitted and curious. 

“May I ask a favor?” 

Bilbo, who had been staring off at the cloud-shapes for a moment, looked down at him suddenly. 

“Of course.” 

Thorin opened both eyes now, fixing him with a serious expression. 

“A kiss,” he asked, “please. Only if you wish it.” 

“Lofty request,” Bilbo teased, “you’re a greedy thing, aren’t you? Not enough to be petted and fed like a spoiled creature? Hold still, then.” 

Bilbo wrapped up one hand in the length of Thorin’s hair and leaned down until his breath washed over Thorin’s cheek, honey-sweet. Thorin tilted up thoughtlessly, seeking-- and Bilbo tightened his fist at the back of his head, his loving handful now a leash. The sound which came from Thorin’s throat, pain and surprise and so much desire, made him dizzyingly hard at once. 

“Hold still, I said,” Bilbo reminded him, soft and not at all scolding. “You’re doing very well. Let me do as I please with you.” 

“Anything,” Thorin rasped, leaning up again to relish Bilbo’s grip. His hands flexed where they lay over his ribs. 

“Anything what?” Bilbo asked, aloof. “You’ll do anything, or you’ll let me do anything?” 

“Both. Either. Kiss me,” he demanded, now writhing just a little under the soft huff of Bilbo’s breath, caught between the promise of his reward and the threat of pain. 

“You’re in no position to forget your manners,” Bilbo laughed, and twisted his fist a little tighter. Thorin was panting now, head drawn back by the pressure, the stretch of his neck and furred jaw exposed to the peaceful breeze. 

“You would have me beg,” Thorin said, as if he had realized it while speaking. His voice carried a spark of wonderment. 

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed, “that would please me very much.” He leaned a little nearer, half with hope of hearing Thorin more clearly while he did so, and half to tantalize him with what he wanted. “Beg.” 

“ _ Mahal _ , I’ll die this way,” Thorin murmured, eyes rolling back slightly, “Bilbo--”

Bilbo’s grip became more savage, wrenching, and he set his teeth to the cord of Thorin’s neck. Thorin wailed aloud, and his back arched away from the picnic blanket, still surrounded bodily by their crumb-coated dishes and empty cups. 

“Very close,” Bilbo said, admiring the little marks of his teeth in Thorin’s skin. It would bruise, Bilbo knew, and might be made prettier by another laid over it. Thorin had tasted of salt, and his skin looked dewy and pink as he tossed his head against Bilbo’s thigh. 

“Please, just,” he moaned, “please…” He sunk against Bilbo, curling himself in like a hurt animal. With a small shudder, he went lax. 

“There we are,” Bilbo murmured, warm and pleased. He took his hand out of Thorin’s hair and framed his beard, petting softly. With no further ceremony, he leaned down and took of his pliant mouth, all softness and cake-sweet taste. Thorin let him, moving only as much as to make the act possible, and making lost little sounds against Bilbo’s lips. “You’re a lovely thing,” Bilbo murmured, right into the kiss. After a moment more of gentling, he drew away. 

“Was it alright?” 

“What?” Thorin croaked. He was boneless over Bilbo’s lap, flushed and hazy, hardly able to open his eyes. 

“Was that… was it acceptable?” 

Thorin blinked, stirring now. His mouth gaped slightly open, moving as if to start a word. 

“I cannot explain,” he said at length. 

“Did you enjoy it, then?” 

Thorin nodded, turning his face to one side comfortably. His hand came up and tangled loosely in the tail of Bilbo’s shirt, clinging like a child might. 

“Don’t go,” he said. Bilbo rubbed over his shoulder and upper arm, the way he had just the other night. Abruptly, he wished he’d thought to bring a second blanket. 

“We needn’t move,” Bilbo assured him, “not until you’re hungry, anyhow. Doze, if you like.” 

Thorin did doze, for a little while. Bilbo watched over him, put little braids in his hair which he was certain meant something - he hoped they meant what he intended them to mean. They had not spoken about the tenure of Thorin’s visit, and perhaps they had equal share in avoidance of the topic. Reckless, this ordeal - but no less reckless than running through his front door with a contract and no handkerchief. 

“I apologize,” Thorin said, soft and a little hoarse. Bilbo hadn’t felt him stirring, and was caught with two twining strands of Thorin’s hair amid his fingers. 

“For ignoring your gracious host in favor of his squeaky hinges?” 

Thorin huffed and levered himself up to sit. Bilbo remembered abruptly that he had the advantage of height even while grounded. His thigh grew cold, unused to the cooling air as the rest of him was. 

“Dwarrows are seldom forthcoming,” Thorin explained at length. He gave Bilbo his profile, stern-browed and remote. The sight was uncomfortably nostalgic. 

“I have noticed,” Bilbo said, picking at a spot of grass. “Have I acted against your wishes?” 

Thorin turned fully away from him now. His hands rubbed restlessly together. 

“No. You have acted remarkably in harmony with them. It is my wishes which are… which should…” 

“Perhaps for Dwarrows,” Bilbo said, placing his hand lightly on Thorin’s thigh, “but for Hobbits, and for Men, it is not unheard of. Secret, yes, but not so unusual. I’ve found many books, overheard many things in the taverns of Men.” 

Thorin had partially turned back, and Bilbo saw the slight curl of his smile at this last remark. 

“He Who Walks Unseen,” Thorin quipped. “So your qualifications were greater than you let on, Burglar.” 

“Men are poor hoarders - particularly of secrets.” 

“And Hobbits?” Thorin asked, with a little less levity than he surely intended. 

“My kin do not keep secrets well,” Bilbo admitted, “but I am unlike them, as you well know.” 

“I have trusted you with my life,” Thorin reflected, “as I have trusted few others.”

“A hard-earned trust,” Bilbo reminded him. “An honor among our peoples. I do not take it lightly.”

Thorin was silent for a long moment, considering. 

“I have not been in the care of another for well over a century.” 

“Would you like to be?” Bilbo asked plainly, without suggestion or implication. Thorin inhaled sharply, quick as an arrow strike. With his open expression and nervous hands, he looked as vulnerable as Bilbo thought a Dwarf of his stature voluntarily could. 

“I am a King,” he said at length, almost petulant. Thorin looked it, as he always did - even with his bare feet on the blanket and his soft, simple clothing - concessions so quickly and simply made to Bilbo’s life here. It was in his very blood, a precious vein so deep and pure it could not be stripped out by any hardship. If a single thing disrupted the image, it was the fresh and purpling bruise at the side of his neck from Bilbo’s teeth, but his warrior’s flesh had endured and showcased many a wound more severe. 

“I hadn’t forgotten.” It would be impossible to forget, Bilbo did not say. Such a fact soured Bilbo’s imaginings as often as it improved them. “Though I must remind you that in this place, your title means only as much as you make of it.” 

“I have desired my kingship all my life,” Thorin said, as if obligated. 

“You may desire it as well as any other thing you like. I have been gentlehobbit  _ and _ adventurer, thanks to you.”

“It would be cowardly to hide here under the guise of Royal business. Unfair to my sister, and to Balin.” 

“How long had you planned to stay and quietly work off the amount?” Bilbo pointed out. “However long that time, you could stay and catch no-one unprepared for your absence.” He recalled, with a small revelation, how Thorin asked to be pushed. That strange certainty crept in again, the prediction that Thorin would concede to him if he asked. 

“You never ask for what you want,” Bilbo said, and caught the repressed flinch in Thorin’s eyes. “Is that why you need me to force you? Give you no choice?” He stood now, gaining a bit of height over Thorin. Of all the things he might have expected - outrage, hesitance, bruised pride - he found only  _ want _ in Thorin’s expression. Silent and enduring, as he must have once wanted for home and kingdom. 

“You’ll stay, then,” Bilbo said. “I shall write to them and insist. They cannot refuse me.” 

“You would write to the regent Queen and council of Erebor to insist on my vacationing?” 

“And more!” Bilbo replied, quite in a huff. “Dare you forget what I’ve done simply to keep you alive? Imagine the lengths I might go for your happiness!” He scoffed with finality, half for Thorin’s amusement. 

“I could not fathom,” he responded. 

They wandered inside by sunset, lingering to collect plates and brush their hands together over stolen crumbs. Without discussion or ill-feeling, they drew apart in the last hour before supper. Something about the ceremony of it, Bilbo thought, unsuccessfully recreating his latest sample of Sindarin lettering. He did not know where Thorin had gone within his warren, and found he was blessed to be wondering so. Even so, his burgeoning confidence waned once again in the silence of his own company. As one so meticulous and fussy in his daily life, Bilbo felt the last few days had gone quite sideways - though the direction had been favorable. Perhaps his after-supper plans ought to be saved for another time. Any decent Hobbit should agree, he thought. 

Though did Dwarrows court as Hobbits? Bilbo paused, uncertain, thumbnail catching between his teeth. Could this be considered courting? Certainly not in proper circles. But then, very little that had transpired between them could be considered in proper circles at all, least of all this. Thorin had sculpted the fate of Erebor by his own hand, against all reasonable advice. Mad Baggins had never been hailed for his adherence to societal standards. Perhaps they could, once again, find their way forward in a strange land. 


End file.
